Monday, 17 February 2014

Chris Port Blog #353. With This Ring: Tales and Ale - Love and Filth

My first idea of heaven is watching
gothic horror films while being watched by an anti-social black cat who stares at me for no good reason
whatsoever. Questions such as “Why
are you so evil?” or “What do you want?”
just elicit more staring (possibly something to do with telepathy, incompetence and cat treats).My second idea of heaven is pubs
and writers, so last night I was like a pig in muck with Tales and Ale 3 - Love and Filth.
Thank you to all.This was my contribution - with
an emphasis on the filth (although not in the way you might think).Writer’s Note

There are two versions of this
story. The first is the one performed last night, edited due to
time-constraints (we cut some of the love, not the filth). The second is more
poetically self-indulgent and slightly
more sympathetic to the wife. I’m not sure which is better.I based the whole thing on a
shaggy dog story I once heard (horror is just comedy with the laughs taken out). For an earlier bare bones sketch, see October
2011’s With This Ring.

“I love you” said the old man,
just as a crow cawed in the yew tree.His wife frowned, suspecting
intimacy. It had been five years since they’d tried any of that nonsense.“I know, darling” she sighed.
They continued slushing through the leaves.There was usually a comfortable
silence on these walks. After forty years, their marriage had settled like a
cat in an armchair. But today something hung unspoken between them – like the
smell of a distant bonfire.“Do you love me?”

The question took her by
surprise. She turned to squint at him.

How frail he looked in the
brittle November sunset, like a suit filled with sticks. His face was still
handsome, she thought. Crevassed, but distinguished. And he’d kept his hair, a
plush shaggy white.

His eyes shone kindly at her,
still the same cornflower blue. She had forgotten how much she loved those
eyes; those eyes which had gazed down at her in the long grass, forty summers
ago. She blushed at the memory and felt it lower down too, as though some
long-sleeping Spring were trying to push up through grave dirt.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do, silly.”

He smiled sadly and nodded. Even
after all this time, she never knew whether he read her thoughts. But they
shared the same memories, so perhaps that was the same thing.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news”
said the old man, mildly. He was looking off now, looking into the black
dripping trees. He sounded as though he was talking about rain.

She knew before he said it. He
was thin as the sunlight and his morning coughs emptied him. Afterward, while
he slept in his armchair, she would clean the blood specks off the privy.

“Have you been to see the
doctor?” she asked.

He smiled and nodded again.

“Not long now” he said, as though
talking about the first snowfall.

“What about me?” asked his wife, “What shall I do?”

“You’ll have the house” said the
old man. “And there’s a little in the bank. But not enough, I’m afraid. You’ll
have to take in some dressmaking from the town. It won’t be so bad. You always
liked sewing.”

She silently did the
calculations. They weren’t good.

“There’s one more thing” said the
old man. He gently clasped her left hand, stroking the back of it with his
thumb.

“I leave everything to you. If
needs be, sell what you must.” His thumb moved to her wedding ring. “Even
this.”

She said nothing. The ring had
been in his family for generations. It was ancient Danegeld and would fetch a
tidy sum at the pawnbroker.

“But not this.”

He held up its twin on his own
finger. It caught the last of the sun and gleamed like the first star. From the
marshes came a curlew cry, cold as worms.

She shivered. “Let’s not talk of
such things” she said breezily, rubbing his thumb and pulling away.

He gripped her hand like a kitten
by the neck. She froze.

“My, how cold the bones get.” His
eyes glittered in the dusk, not cornflowers now but sapphires. “My darling wife,
will you bury me with my wedding ring? I should like to think of you in my long
sleep.”

What could she say? She nodded. A
great burden seemed to lift from him and they walked home in silence. By the
time they got there, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight.

*******

“It’s one of a pair” said the
pawnbroker, three months later. He peered at the ring through his eyeglass.

“How can you tell?” asked the
widow.

The February daylight was
ghostly. He held the ring up to the lamplight. “There’s an inscription here on
the inside.”

She had never noticed it. “What
does it say?”

The pawnbroker dropped the
eyepiece into his hand. “I’ve no idea, madam. They’re runic characters. But I
recognize the style. They always come in pairs.” A sly look crept over his
face. “Do you have the other?”

“No” said the widow, picturing
her husband’s ring finger in the dark.

“Pity” he sighed, adjusting his
calculations. “It’s a nice piece on its own. But as a pair, I know collectors
who would…” He stopped himself. “They have mystic value, you see. If you can
believe in such things.”

It was clear from his tone that
he believed more in money. So did the widow. She took the ring back.

“I’ll be here tomorrow” she said.

The doorbell jangled shut like a
cash register and the pawnbroker looked thoughtfully after her. It was true he
didn’t know what the runes said. They were a long dead language. But he had
once dealt with a similar pair of rings, and it had not ended well - for the
seller, at least. He had done quite nicely out of it. A traumatised priest had
offered him a Christian translation after consulting forbidden books. If
accurate, the wife’s ring had said this:

“What God hath put asunder…”

Although not a Christian, he
could guess the other inscription.

*******

The widow twisted her ring in the
candlelight like a conscience. It had been a hard winter. Surely her husband
would not begrudge her food? And after all, what need have the dead of gold?

‘Till death us do part’ was the
promise. She had kept her part of the bargain.

She found his gardening shovel
and dozed in his armchair till sunset. Then, as we all must do when sinning,
she observed herself as if in a dream.

The graveyard sparkled like
fallen stars, and the stone angels said nothing. The winter earth was iron, but
she came from healthy peasant stock. After an hour of grunting she was slick with
sweat. An owl watched then turned its head away after a field mouse. At last,
the metal hit cheap wood. It had been a modest funeral.

Not in the least squeamish, she
scraped away the wriggly things and prised open the lid. The wood groaned then
shrieked and putrescence hissed out. It was the worst smell in the world, and
she would never forget it: sewage and corruption and wet things under stones.
What a piece of work is a man when God’s work is undone.

She avoided looking at his face.
Those cornflower eyes were long gone. What nestled in their place was
greenish-black and squirmed. With cotton tweezers, she pried the slimy gold
from his skeletal finger.

It took another hour to make him
respectable. By the time she returned home, the roof was silvered with frost
and moonlight.

*******

Placing her prize on the bedside
table, she fell into a troubled sleep.

A voice whispered. “I can’t
remember you…”

She woke up in terror. The house
was silent. Eventually she fell back into bad dreams.

The voice whispered. “Is this
where I live?”

She awoke again. Silence. Then
back to her nightmares.

The voice whispered again. “I am
coming to bed, my darling.”

This time, she did not wake up.
She lay there like a tiny forest animal, too frightened to breathe, playing
dead.

She heard slow, horribly familiar
footsteps approach the bed. She dared not look. She felt the covers slowly
pulled down by horribly familiar hands. She dared not move. The bed moved like
a stomach dropping as a horribly familiar weight settled next to her.

“Oh the bed’s a fine and private
place,” whispered the voice, “and we I think do there embrace…”

The next morning, the milkman
came to collect a bill but could raise no answer. He peered through the window
like a jeweller through an eyepiece then raised the alarm.

The wife was dead in her bed.

“Heart attack” pronounced the
Doctor, pulling the sheet up over her face. “Such expressions are quite common
in such cases.” He glanced at her horny feet protruding. “She probably died of a
broken heart. They were inseparable.”

Later that day, the removal men
came to take away everything of value. But of both wedding rings, there was not
a trace…

His wife frowned, suspecting
intimacy. It had been five years since they’d tried any of that nonsense.

“I know, darling” she sighed.
They continued slushing through the leaves.

There was usually a comfortable
silence on these walks. After forty years, their marriage had settled like a
cat in an armchair. But today something hung unspoken between them – like the
smell of a distant bonfire.

“Do you love me?”

The question took her by
surprise. She turned to squint at him.

How frail he looked in the
brittle November sunset, like a suit filled with sticks. His face was still
handsome, she thought. Crevassed, but distinguished. And he’d kept his hair, a
plush shaggy white.

Suddenly, she caught herself in
the mirror of his look. I’m old, she shuddered. Pleasantly plump, but a crab apple.
And a dry womb that never bore fruit…

His eyes shone kindly at her, still
the same cornflower blue. She had forgotten how much she loved those eyes;
those eyes which had gazed down at her in the long grass, forty summers ago.
She blushed at the memory and felt it lower down too, as though some long-sleeping
Spring were trying to push up through grave dirt.

“Do you love me?”

What could she say? What could
she say to make him understand? That her breasts had been soft as ice cream in
July, and their souls had mingled in secret places. That they had groaned like
animals and wept like children. And that five years ago he had wept in the
impotent dark, and she had held him gently as a mother. Oh what a life lay in
one word.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do, silly.”

He smiled sadly and nodded. Even
after all this time, she never knew whether he read her thoughts. But they
shared the same memories, so perhaps that was the same thing.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news”
said the old man, mildly. He was looking off now, looking into the black
dripping trees. He sounded as though he was talking about rain.

She knew before he said it. He
was thin as the sunlight and his morning coughs emptied him. Afterward, while
he slept in his armchair, she would clean the blood specks off the privy.

“Have you been to see the
doctor?” she asked.

He smiled and nodded again.

“Not long now” he said, as though
talking about the first snowfall.

“What about me?” asked his wife, “What shall I do?”

“You’ll have the house” said the
old man. “And there’s a little in the bank. But not enough, I’m afraid. You’ll
have to take in some dressmaking from the town. It won’t be so bad. You always
liked sewing.”

She silently did the
calculations. They weren’t good.

“There’s one more thing” said the
old man. He gently clasped her left hand, stroking the back of it with his
thumb.

“I leave everything to you. If
needs be, sell what you must.” His thumb moved to her wedding ring. “Even this.”

She said nothing. The ring had
been in his family for generations. It was ancient Danegeld and would fetch a
tidy sum at the pawnbroker.

“But not this.”

He held up its twin on his own finger.
It caught the last of the sun and gleamed like the first star. From the marshes
came a curlew cry, cold as worms.

She shivered. “Let’s not talk of
such things” she said breezily, rubbing his thumb and pulling away.

He gripped her hand like a kitten
by the neck. She froze.

“My, how cold the bones get.” His
eyes glittered in the dusk, not cornflowers now but sapphires. “My darling wife,
will you bury me with my wedding ring? I should like to think of you in my long
sleep.”

What could she say? She nodded. A
great burden seemed to lift from him and they walked home in silence. By the
time they got there, the roof was silvered with frost and moonlight.

*******

“It’s one of a pair” said the
pawnbroker, three months later. He peered at the ring through his eyeglass.

“How can you tell?” asked the
widow.

The February daylight was
ghostly. He held the ring up to the lamplight. “There’s an inscription here on
the inside.”

She had never noticed it. “What
does it say?”

The pawnbroker dropped the
eyepiece into his hand. “I’ve no idea, madam. They’re runic characters. But I
recognize the style. They always come in pairs.” A sly look crept over his
face. “Do you have the other?”

“No” said the widow, picturing
her husband’s ring finger in the dark.

“Pity” he sighed, adjusting his
calculations. “It’s a nice piece on its own. But as a pair, I know collectors
who would…” He stopped himself. “They have mystic value, you see. If you can
believe in such things.”

It was clear from his tone that
he believed more in money. So did the widow. She took the ring back.

“I’ll be here tomorrow” she said.

The doorbell jangled shut like a
cash register and the pawnbroker looked thoughtfully after her. It was true he
didn’t know what the runes said. They were a long dead language. But he had
once dealt with a similar pair of rings, and it had not ended well - for the
seller, at least. He had done quite nicely out of it. A traumatised priest had
offered him a Christian translation after consulting forbidden books. If
accurate, the wife’s ring had said this:

“What God hath put asunder…”

Although not a Christian, he
could guess the other inscription.

*******

The widow twisted her ring in the
candlelight like a conscience. It had been a hard winter. Surely her husband
would not begrudge her food? And after all, what need have the dead of gold?

‘Till death us do part’ was the
promise. She had kept her part of the bargain.

She found his gardening shovel and
dozed in his armchair till sunset. Then, as we all must do when sinning, she
observed herself as if in a dream.

The graveyard sparkled like
fallen stars, and the stone angels said nothing. The winter earth was iron, but
she came from healthy peasant stock. After an hour of grunting she was slick
with sweat. An owl watched then turned its head away after a field mouse. At
last, the metal hit cheap wood. It had been a modest funeral.

Not in the least squeamish, she
scraped away the wriggly things and prised open the lid. The wood groaned then shrieked
and putrescence hissed out. It was the worst smell in the world, and she would
never forget it: sewage and corruption and wet things under stones. What a
piece of work is a man when God’s work is undone.

She avoided looking at his face. Those
cornflower eyes were long gone. What nestled in their place was greenish-black
and squirmed. With cotton tweezers, she pried the slimy gold from his skeletal
finger.

It took another hour to make him
respectable. By the time she returned home, the roof was silvered with frost
and moonlight.

*******

Placing her prize on the bedside
table, she fell into a troubled sleep.

A voice whispered. “I can’t
remember you…”

She woke up in terror. The house
was silent. Eventually she fell back into bad dreams.

The voice whispered. “Is this
where I live?”

She awoke again. Silence. Then
back to her nightmares.

The voice whispered again. “I am
coming to bed, my darling.”

This time, she did not wake up.
She lay there like a tiny forest animal, too frightened to breathe, playing
dead.

She heard slow, horribly familiar
footsteps approach the bed. She dared not look. She felt the covers slowly
pulled down by horribly familiar hands. She dared not move. The bed moved like
a stomach dropping as a horribly familiar weight settled next to her.

“Oh the bed’s a fine and private
place,” whispered the voice, “and we I think do there embrace…”

The next morning, the milkman
came to collect a bill but could raise no answer. He peered through the window
like a jeweller through an eyepiece then raised the alarm.

The wife was dead in her bed.

“Heart attack” pronounced the
Doctor, pulling the sheet up over her face. “Such expressions are quite common
in such cases.” He glanced at her horny feet protruding. “She probably died of
a broken heart. They were inseparable.”

Later that day, the removal men
came to take away everything of value. But of both wedding rings, there was not
a trace…

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About Me

I am a fully qualified teacher of Drama, Media and Film Studies with ten years’ work experience in secondary and further education. I graduated from the Central School of Speech and Drama (one of the most respected Drama conservatoires in the world) with a first class Honours degree in Drama and Education and a PGCE.
I was a writer-in-residence and workshop leader for a Southend-based youth theatre for ten years, during which time I developed my creative writing skills to include playscripts, poetry and songs. With my deep interest in Film, I have now expanded these skills to include screenplays.
I now wish to take a sabbatical from teaching to focus on a proposal for a PhD thesis. This will involve developing new collaborative methodologies for intertextual musical theatre in the context of a resynthesis of art, philosophy and science.
My specific areas of interest and expertise are as follows: Academic, Acting, Analysis, Assessment, Auditions, Collaboration, Creative Thinking, Directing, Drama, Education, English, Film, History, Lecturing, Literature, Media, Poetry, Philosophy, Playscripts, Screenplays, Songs, Teaching, Television, Theatre, Tutoring, Workshops, Writing.

I’m writing a first draft for a musical. It's called Marty Gull (Marty[r] Gull[ible]). It's a surreal, satirical, tragicomic piece of musical political theatre: a cautionary tale of school politics, backstabbing egos and the state of the nation.

I’ve written the first draft libretto using a medley of melodies in my head from well-known musicals.

I would like to extend an open invitation to all budding musicians and composers to submit their own musical interpretations. I would also welcome interest from actors (age 20-25) who can sing and dance.

The plan is to develop a new collaborative form of musical theatre. Once we get a good working team of lyricists, composers, musicians, actors and designers together we can decide on the final evolution of the piece and arrange copyright accordingly. I would like to submit or even take the piece to Central as a work-in-progress.

Ultimately, I would be interested in using all of this as a springboard for a thesis on new art forms and musical theatre. But, most of all, I would love to have the opportunity of working with kind, creative and talented people.

If you like the sound of any of this, please post a comment at http://martygull.blogspot.com/or get in touch with me through one of the following methods: